Chapter Nine

All hell broke loose two days after the Amerikans stated fighting among themselves and one day after Fyodor Fyodorov-Fyedinka warned Rassolnikov that the premier and his wife were coming. The Amerikans continued scrapping. The Kalifornians blamed everything on the Texans and the Texans blamed everything on the Kalifornians. Then somehow they all agreed that the Russians were at fault. Curiously, it was just about the same time that the Russians finally got together and agreed that the Amerikans were the cause of all the problems and delay.

So the Amerikans took to grumbling, then shouting out loud at the Russians, and the Russians took to grumbling and shouting out loud at the Amerikans. The cold war had returned, in microcosm, on the various floors of the Glasnost Hotel, and even less got accomplished than before. The noise hurt Koshka's ears, and the tension that always lay heavy in the air made him want to hide in his cellar. But, the Wonder Cat needed to stay on top of things. Koshka stood his ground, observing the chaos, and recording in his feline brain every word and gesture.

Finally Rassolnikov called a general meeting, and the shabby old Peace and Friendship Meeting Room was filled with tall kofbois, dark Kalifornians, Perezhitkov, Rodion, and a host of un-named workers in dirty quilted uniforms who leaned on shovels and puffed on stubby cigarettes.

The noise and the smoke were awful. Koshka lay concealed in the corner, under a table, his paws folded over his ears.

"Dumb, stupid foreigners!" yelled Rassolnikov. "Dumb kapitalists! Get off your fat, lazy bottoms and get this project moving!"

"Stupid, lazy commies!" yelled Johnny Frisco, his thumb flying from under his teeth. "You can't get nothing done! And your money--it stinks! Your coins are too small! Your rubles ain't no good for nothing, nowhere!"

"Stupid kapitalists!" Vanya the worker yelled back. "Where's the hard currency you promised us? The salaries, the bonuses?"

Winston Hale sat in a corner, his head in his hands, weeping.

Mitya the worker raised a fist at the reverend. "Where are all the batter-fried chicken wings you promised, you long-legged monstrosity?"

Billy Bob Buck raised both hands high in the air. "Now, brothers and sisters, let us all take our places! Let us sit down and listen to the word of the lord, as given to his exalted servant, me, the Reverend Billy Bob Buck!"

"Sit down, you long-legged egret!" yelled Mitya.

"Where's that batter-fried chicken you promised us?" demanded Vanya. "I'm hungry!"

Mrs. Billy Bob wiped her eyes and clasped her husband's hand, raising it high in the air. "The lord speaks through my husband! Let us all listen to the word of the lord, to my husband!"

"Oh, sit down and fix your wig!" Vasya the worker yelled.

"Go get us some fried chicken!" Vanya yelled.

"There's a burden on my heart!" chanted the reverend.

"Get that nut out 'a here!" said Johnny Frisco through his teeth.

"The harmonic vibrations in here--they're--they're just not right for meaningful dialogue," cautioned Winston Hale between sobs.

"You're all making a mess of the floor," grumbled Rodion. "And I hope you god-forsaken anarchists don't intend for me to clean it up!"

"Where are the wrenches and the pipe and the electrical conduit you promised?" asked poor Perezhitkov. His eyes turned moist and his voice passed into tenor range. "And the beams you promised. Why, without them, the rotten roof over us all will cave in by the time this god-forsaken hotel even opens!"

"And where's the boneless chicken breast we're supposed to serve?" added Osip the waiter. "As if you could grow a chicken without bones!"

"Hey, and where's the construction materials you commies promised?" demanded Nick, shaking his knobby fist.

Perezhitkov's hands shook, and his voice went up to soprano. "Where's the plywood and the panelling you promised?"

"And the fruit and lettuce too, you foreign no-counts!" added Borya Smetanov. "I knew it! Let foreigners in, and the whole country falls apart! That's what's happening!"

So, the Amerikans shouted at the Russians for hours, it seemed, then the Amerikans shouted back at the Russians. Koshka's head swam. Finally, Rassolnikov stood up and shouted at everybody.

"This is chaos, pure and simple! None of you can get anything done! In the old days, all of you'd be mining salt in Siberia! Now shut up and listen to me!"

The noise did not let up. It was more than an ordinary cat would bear, but Koshka remained, shielding his ears with his paws.

"Alright, silence! Alright, silence!" Rassolnikov repeated. "I will make you listen to me. I will use this bullhorn!"

He held up a clumsy antique mechanism of Soviet design.

"Hey, that ugly bullhorn's probably like everything else in this god-forsaken country!" shouted Johnny Frisco, cupping his hands around his mouth. "It probably don't work!"

Rassolnikov made a gesture with his thumb, then flipped a red switch on the side of the bullhorn.

"W-w-r-r-o-o-o-o-w-w!"

Hands went up to ears. Faces turned red and pained. Nothing else was audible. Blue cigarette smoke shivered in the air. Koshka plugged his ears tighter with his paws.

Rassolnikov flipped the red lever, and the room went quiet for a moment, then the noise began again.

In the corner, David the interpreter stood up suddenly, cupped his hands, and let out a shrill whistle that brought everybody to a stop. "Now, listen up!" he said in a voice that was calm but commanding. "This bickering is getting no one anywhere. We need to make progress here. We need to look at the problems, one-by-one!"

The room filled with shouts. Rassolnikov flipped the switch.

"W-w-w-r-r-o-o-w-w-!"

He flipped it off, and the room turned quiet.

David nodded. "Thank you, but we won't need the bullhorn anymore. Now, one at a time, please! What are the problems? Raise your hands!"

The room was filled with uplifted hands--Russian hands, kofboi hands, Kalifornia hands.

David picked Nick. "We got no construction materials! We gotta make a nice hotel for you, and you haven't given us construction materials."

"Now, who will give an answer?" demanded David, scanning the Russians. "Who can answer?"

"We can't get any deliveries, as usual!" sighed Perezhitkov.

"Why not?" asked David.

Perezhitkov shrugged.

Osip the waiter raised his hand. "I know why. No bribes!"

"What do you mean?" asked David.

"No bribes. If we don't bribe the delivery men, and the dispatcher, and the construction company, and every distributor and every factory, then we don't get anything."

"See, it's a big mess!" said Johnny Frisco. "I wanna go home!"

"Raise your hand to speak!" admonished David. "You'll have your turn."

Johnny Frisco raised his hand like an obedient schoolboy. "We can't do nothing over here! Take yesterday, for example. My construction boys--they needed an extension cord. 'No extension cords available without permit' they were told. So we applied for permits all over the place. Then nobody knows where to send the permits or where to get the damned cords! It's a mess, I tell you! One hell of a mess!"

"And it ain't just one extension cord!" said Nick raising his hand. "It's like a tangled pasta! Nothing comes out. It's a big mess, that's what it is!"

David shook his head and turned to face the other side of the room. "Russians, what is the answer here?"

No response.

"Comrade Perezhitkov, what is the solution here?"

Poor Perezhitkov sighed. "I've tried. There's a two-year backlog in extension cord orders. The factory that makes them needs a railway track to get its raw materials delivered, and there's a shortage of railroad track because the railroad track factory closed for lack of railroad ties."

David shook his head.

"That's not all they told me," continued Perezhitkov. "They say we have enough trees for railroad ties, but Moscow's been selling lumber abroad for hard currency to pay Kapitalist investors like yourselves! So, in a way, it's your fault we have no railway ties, no train tracks, no extension cords." His voice strained and he shook his head. "Things are a mess. It's like that all over! Just like this building here," he sobbed. "Just like this building. Nothing works, and everything is tied in with everything else."

"Ah, it's chaos!" hrumphed Borya Smetanov. "And it's all the fault of the foreigners and the Russians who kowtow to them! Now under Stalin--those were the days! If a person needed an extension cord and couldn't get it--well, heads would roll, and there were plenty of railroad tracks--all leading to Siberia for those who didn't do what they were supposed to do!" His face contorted and he wrung his hands. "We didn't need any foreigners! Oh, how I miss those days!"

"I miss those days too!" said Rassolnikov. "Even under Khrushchev and Brezhnev, things got done, or else! Then, after Chernenko, things got worse. Now you have pseudo-capitalism or pseudo-communism and nothing gets done!"

"Alright, alright!" said David. "But look, all of us are here to do a certain job, and that job involves opening a hotel and restaurant. If it doesn't happen, then we are all failures. It's that simple. So here's the question!" His words came out slow and clear. "What do we do to make sure the hotel and restaurant open on schedule?"

Osip sighed. "Five years ago, if you needed a hotel and restaurant built, I could get it all done in no time!"

"How?' asked everyone incredulously.

"I'm not just a waiter, you know. I was an apparatchik."

"A what-chik?" asked Johnny Frisco.

"An apparatchik. An expeditor. I got things done. If a certain hotel needed new mattresses, for instance, and if there was a two-year wait at the mattress distribution point, then I found out who controlled the waiting list, greased the right palms, when necessary--traded a little, bartered a little, and presto! You had all the mattresses you needed, and the mattress factory apparatchik had something he needed too!"

"Disgusting!" said the reverend Billy Bob. "That's corruption!"

"Sounds like a model of demand-side, market-economy capitalism to me!" said Winston Hale.

"I don't know what you'd call it," Osip said quietly. "But it worked."

"It sounds to me like a good way to do business," said Nick. "We kind'a do business like that too back home. I help my buddy out. He helps me out."

"Why, that's communism, brothers!" said Billy Bob Buck. "Pure and simple! And anyway, I want clear control of expenditures and profits on the way in and on the way out!"

"That's capitalism at its worst!" Rassolnikov said. "Greedy, disgusting capitalism, and I won't stand for it!"

The room filled with grumbles.

"Alright!" said David. "Look, we're all in this mess together!"

Heads nodded.

"We need to reach some kind of agreement here. Things are going nowhere, and we have a deadline. The premier himself is coming, I'm told!"

Gasps filled the room. "When?"

"Less than one month from now."

More gasps.

David continued. "And two weeks after that, the president of the United States is coming too."

More gasps.

"We need to do something, and we need to do it fast. We are in this together. All of us--each of us--needs this project completed, for whatever reasons, and we all suffer if it fails. Correct?"

Heads nodded.

"Then what is the solution?"

There was silence. Then Osip raised his hand. "Put me in charge. Make me an apparatchik. Give me what I need to grease the right wheels during construction. Then give me three per cent of your profits for five years, and I guarantee you will have a first-class hotel!"

Silence.

"That's extortion!" said Johnny Frisco.

"Yeah!" said Nick. "I know what that is! That's communist blackmail!"

"It's not communism!" said Rassolnikov. "It's kapitalist blackmail!"

"It's unholy communism!" said Billy Bob Buck, his hand shooting into the air. "I don't mean to give up any of my per cent, so praise the Lord!"

"It's--it's all unorthodox!" moaned Winston Hale.

"You mean, unchristian?" asked Borya.

"No! Unorthodox! Not done! That's what I mean. At Stanford--I have an MBA, you know--at Stanford, we had no examples for such an undertaking. There are no economic models, no read-outs, no textbooks-"

"Look!" said Osip wearily. "You've all been at this for weeks. You've accomplished almost nothing, and time's running out." He put on his hat and headed for the door. "Call me if you want me. You know my terms."

"Don't go!" pleaded Perezhitkov.

"Don't go!" pleaded Nick and Johnny Frisco.

"Don't go!" whispered Rassolnikov, shrugging his shoulders.

"We'll consider your proposition," said Winston Hale.

"Stay with us a while, child," said Billy Bob Buck.

"I don't think we have much choice," offered David.

Osip turned around, and his eyes turned steely. "Alright. But now, all of you will take orders from me!"

Heads lowered and nodded. A long, crooked smile spread across Osip's face.

#

Koshka explained what had transpired at the meeting, and all the neighborhood cats nodded their heads, even Avvakuum.

"It's always been that way," the old red cat said, shaking his head. "The only way to get things done is to be crooked about it."

"Sadly, our friend Avvakuum may be correct," said Feofan Lapa. "That seems to be the way in this country."

The other Yauza River Moscow cats nodded. "That seems to be the way," they said together. "We've been a lot of places, travelling as we do, with our master."

"There's one exception, of course," added Avvakuum.

"What is that, my friend?"

"When tyrants come around and force things to be done."

"Has it always been that way?" Koshka asked mournfully. There seemed little reason for optimism at that point. The widow Petrova was losing her apartment, and things at the Glasnost had deteriorated more than anybody--save Avvakuum--had anticipated. Koshka shook his head. "Why are things always so chaotic? Is it like that in the rest of the world? Are humans that crazy everywhere?"

"Well, yes they are," answered Feofan Lapa. "Each country has its own peculiar brand of chaos and absurdity."

The elder Yauza River cats nodded.

"Humans are crazy! Humans are crazy!" chanted Misha and Grisha.

"And cats aren't much better, by the way," said Feofan Lapa.

"Humans are crazy! Humans are crazy!" Misha and Grisha sang.

"What--what did you say?" snapped Avvakuum.

"I said, 'Cats aren't much better,'" answered Feofan Lapa.

"I hardly believe that!" hrumphed Avvakuum.

"Well, then, my friend, let us go back in time. Let us see what the Cat Chronicles tell us." With that, Feofan Lapa took his place on the center work bench, and the other cats took their places, their heads ready to nod off under the spell of Feofan Lapa's voice.

"We go back in time, centuries ago, fellow cats. Your heads feel drowsy. Your eyelids feel heavy, and you want more than anything to fall into a deep sleep. Except this will not be just any sleep. Your mind will remain awake. You will listen to my words, and the words will paint vivid pictures in your minds. As we go back. Back. Back."

Koshka's head nodded off into a deep slumber. His limbs felt too heavy to move--if he wanted to move them, that is.

Feofan Lapa droned on. His voice played melodies in Koshka's head, and Koshka's brows got heavier and heavier.

"We are back in Muscovy, at the time of Ivan the Fourth, also known as Ivan the Terrible. This is also the time of the black court cats, the Giorgy Cherney's, the bell-tower cats, as they were sometimes called.

Now, Giorgy Cherney the First was the prized cat of young Ivan. As a kitten, Giorgy sat for hours on poor Ivan's lap, as the young prince sat on the throne. You can see that throne still today, in the Kremlin Armory, a building that Ivan himself commissioned. Now the strange thing about that throne is that it was very small for a child as it would have been, that it was very tall in the back, and that it had a square hole in the back panel.

And the shape of that throne tells its own story. Ivan was a very young czar. His father had died when Ivan was four, and his mother had died when Ivan was eight, probably of poisoning--and the poisoning was probably done by the noble families, the boyars, who were always competing for power behind the scenes. So, Ivan the young czar had a regent, who sat concealed behind the tall-backed throne, and this regent told Ivan when to say 'no' and when to say 'yes' through the hole in the back of the throne. This went on for years.

Poor Ivan was friend-less. The regents retainers, who always filled the chambers, would have nothing to do with him. They talked as if he didn't exist, even to his face--as if he wasn't there. His single companion, a young boy, was taken away and ordered killed by one boyar family. This left Giorgy Cherney, the cat, and to him, Ivan confided all.

And so it was, one day, during the young czar's formal meetings.

'The Yauza River properties belong to my family!' screamed a short, fat boyar, wrapping his hands around his stomach. 'They have from the time of Ivan the Second, and this--this fish-thief!" He pointed at a fuzzy-bearded boyar. "This son-of-a-whore is trying to steal them from me!'

'Young czar, those lands belong to me--to my family!' shouted the fuzzy-bearded boyar from the other side of the chamber. 'They have been in the family since the Golden Horde of the Mongols--and this jackal, this skunk's offspring, ties to steal them from me! Have mercy, oh czar, and grant me my lands.'

The fat boyar bowed low. 'Do justice, and have mercy, oh czar, and give me back my lands, free of the stain of that--that thief!'

'I hate these cruel, vain, stupid people!' Ivan whispered to his cat.

'What did you say, boy?' whispered the regent from behind the throne. Ivan had not known that a whispering voice could thunder, but it did this time. He could smell the rot from the man's teeth.

'Nothing, dear, respected regent. I was just talking with my cat.'

A hand came through that throne hole and poked Ivan sharp in the back. 'Listen, boy! When you are sitting here, you say nothing unless I tell you! You do nothing unless I command you!'

'Yes, dear, respected regent.'

The retainers, who lined the room, smiled a cruel smile.

By then, both boyars were lying face down on the floor, wailing and begging for mercy.

'Grant me the Yauza River lands, oh young czar, and the Kremlin each year will receive the best grains, the best turnips!' said the fat one.

'Grant me the Yauza River lands, and the Kremlin each year will receive the fattest hogs, the meatiest cows!' said the other.

'Look at these people, greedy and evil! Lord, how I hate this!' Ivan whispered to Giorgy Cherney.

There was a rustling from behind. A bony hand shot through the hole in the throne and grabbed the cat from the boy's lap.

There was a howl, then a long mournful wail that diminished slowly into silence. Ivan jumped at the wail, then covered his face with his hands. He was too afraid to speak, or to move.

'Now!' said the regent's hoarse voice.

Ivan dreaded the worst. His pet's wail still echoed in his ears.

'Your cat will see nothing again,' said the regent. 'Use this as a lesson!'

A bony hand thrust a bloodied cat through the opening, and the retainers laughed.

And that is how Giorgy Cherney the First became the blind cat of the Kremlin. Ivan spent hours holding and hugging his blind cat on the throne, waiting for the day when he would have revenge.

Boris, the chief palace guard, took pity on Giorgy Cherney, and made sure the cat was always warm, fed, and protected from tormentors, who were mostly human.

The chance came years later, when Ivan was thirteen. He was too tall for the old throne, so a new one was built, without the hole in the back. The hole was not needed in the new one--Ivan had grown in intelligence as well as height, and the regent could now prompt him hours in advance, testing him until the requisite responses were obtained, probing him until Ivan felt sick.

It was a late afternoon. Storm clouds blew up from the Moskva River, and in the wind the heavy bells swayed, ringing low and off-key.

The wicked regent walked into the palace chamber. 'The boyars will be here in half an hour,' he told Ivan. 'Prepare yourself, and repeat everything as I have commanded, as we have practiced. You know how to answer all their questions and petitions?'

'Yes, dear, respected regent,' said Ivan. He looked about the quiet chamber, and his eyes suddenly turned to steel, as if reflecting the grayish Moscow sky. 'Where are your retainers?' he asked.

'My affairs are none of your-' the regent started to answer, but then he blinked and looked quickly about the chamber, then at Ivan. His face turned white, as if he had read an ominous message in the young czar's eyes. He stepped back.

A tight smile spread over Ivan's mouth. 'Boris! Guards!' he called out.

Boris appeared at the chamber door, and he bowed low.

'Take away this--this traitor!' said Ivan coldly, pointing at the regent.

Boris looked around the chamber, smiled, then nodded. He stepped towards the regent.

Ivan's eyes shone like polished metal. 'Take this dog--this traitor to the kennels!' he commanded. 'The kennel keeper will know what to do.'

'Yes,' said Boris, bowing low. 'Yes, your majesty, czar of all Russia!'

That evening, Ivan the Fourth, czar of all Russia, stood high in the bell tower. In the distance he could see the royal kennels, and in the middle of the stone walls, big men with thick clubs beat a figure that was kneeling, then lying on the ground, his bony hands raised towards the clubs.

Ivan bent low on the railing, breathed deeply, and patted his cat's head. 'If you could only see, Giorgy Cherney, you would know that waiting only makes revenge sweeter, when it comes.'

Ivan the Fourth was now ruler of all Russia, and Giorgy Cherney the blind cat remained his favorite pet. Giorgy lived in the bell tower, where the guards fed him. He died during a fierce January blizzard, an overweight cat in the sixteenth year of his life. He was buried inside the Kremlin, and his son Giorgy Cherney the Second, became the czar's replacement pet in 1547. It was the first page in a new chapter on Kremlin cats, on Mother Russia, and on Ivan the Fourth."

With that, Feofan Lapa yawned wide and stretched. "But that is another tale, however, to be told at another gathering, my friends. So now, you will feel energy returning to your bodies. You will open your eyes at the count of five, and you will feel refreshed, alert. Five. Four. Three. Two. One."

Eyes blinked and then remained open.

"A cruel time it was, back then in that century," said Avvakuum.

"A cruel time indeed," answered Feofan Lapa.

"But the cats were not cruel, were they?" asked Misha.

"The people were horribly cruel!" said Grisha. "The regent, the boyars, and even Ivan, later."

"They blinded his pet!" said Avvakuum. "Of course he became cruel. He was surrounded by it."

"But what about cat cruelty?" asked Masha. "Giorgy Cherney was a victim of cruelty, not the perpetrator."

Feofan Lapa sighed. "Yes, indeed. In this tale, both Giorgy Cherney and Ivan were victims. But wait until our next gathering, and you will see what happened to these victims, and the victims of those victims."

"Tell us now! Tell us now!" chanted Misha and Grisha.

"It is a long story," said Feofan Lapa. "We will save it for next time."

"The sixteenth century--what a cruel time!" said Masha the house cat.

"All centuries are cruel!" snapped Avvakuum. "Give a thought to this one, for example!"

Feofan Lapa smiled. "We will wait until our next gathering."

The panes rattled in the "Peoples Collective Time Marches Ever Forward" Watch Factory, and a round moon peered between the clouds, high over the television tower that blinked like a beacon.

#

Things quieted down at the Glasnost Hotel on Popov Street. The reverend Billy Bob shouted less now, and Nick and Johnny Frisco poured less liquid from their square brown bottles. Even Rodion seemed in better spirits. He swept off the back landing, and, as if that weren't enough to shock everybody, he whistled as he swept. Perezhitkov went about his work on the roof and the plumbing. He shook his head less often, and he hardly ever broke into tears. And through it all, a quiet, business-like Osip weaved his way.

Koshka took to taking afternoon naps again.

The peace and calm lasted three days. Then all hell broke loose again. Deliveries didn't come. The roof still swayed, and the restaurant didn't open. Finally, the Amerikans cornered Osip in his tiny office.

They stood and sat and leaned on the furniture, packed as they were into the tiny room. Wide-brimmed hats bounced, floating over the crowd. The air was stuffy and hot. David sat next to Perezhitkov, fielding shouts and insults and translating them.

"Now, you listen to me, you fine Amerikan gentlemen!" Osip said wryly. "The delays are your fault, not mine, and not the Russians. You're two days late on your payments and advances. One more day, and I will be compelled to shut down the whole operation!"

"We gave you the money!" said Johnny Frisco. "What more do you want?"

"You know what I need!" said Osip. "I gave you a whole list. Money's one thing, but to get things done here, that's only a start." He pulled a sheet of paper out of his coat pocket. "Now, let's see here." His hand ran down the page. "Where are the nylons? I need two dozen pairs of nylon stockings--and that's just to get the produce from the collective farm. Now for stoves--if you want ovens, you can order them from the trade office factory distribution center and you can wait thirteen years for delivery. Let's see, that would be in the afternoon of January 27th of the year 2003, to be exact."

"It's a sin!" said the reverend Billy Bob. "It's a sin to have to wait that long for money!"

"That's not all!" said Osip, as if Billy Bob hadn't spoken. "Because those new 'cooperative restaurants' are so popular nowadays, you can wait an additional three years for a griddle."

"Why, it's a genuine sin!" said the reverend. "A hotel without a griddle--that's low profits, and that's a big, big sin in my book!"

"That's not all quite yet," said Osip. "For a griddle that works when you take it out of the packing crate, for a griddle that has all its parts--well, that's another two years."

"This is impossible! Chaos!" gasped Winston Hale. "Even city hall at Los Angeles works better than this! Even the California state government! Even, why even the University of California at Berkeley!"

"Shut up, you fruitcake!" said Johnny Frisco. "Let's see what's got'ta be done here. You can carry on about your stuff later."

"Thank you," said Osip. "Now, back to business. For a stove that doesn't work, I estimate you wait seventeen years, at a minimum. With the typical bribe, you can cut that waiting period down ninety per cent."

"What kind of typical bribe?" asked Johnny Frisco, reaching for his checkbook.

"Money's a typical bribe."

"Yeah, but we got foreign currency."

"Well, that is the typical bribe here. Hardly anybody would take rubles for anything, because you can hardly buy anything with them. So, dollars are a decent bribe--good for, say, ninety-five per cent reduction in the wait."

"But that's still too long!" said Johnny Frisco. "We need them stoves now."

"And the fittings, and the vents, and the hoods, and the pipes too," added Nick.

Johnny Frisco's eyes leveled. "You know, Osip. I like you. I like doing business with you. You're a man I understand. So now, tell Johnny Frisco exactly what you need."

"Heal!" shouted Billy Bob Buck suddenly. His hands shot forward. "Let the Holy Spirit be with you!"

"Not now, honey," whispered Mrs. Billy Bob Buck. She held her husband's arm. "We're getting close to talk about profit here. Hush!"

She turned towards Osip. "My husband, he's just having a little spell--that's all. Something he ate. Or a word of knowledge maybe."

"Devils, out!" cried the reverend. "Devils, leave! Heal, now!"

Mrs. Billy Bob grabbed her husband's arm. "Honey-pie, not now! It's on the table. We're talking money now!"

Osip looked puzzled. Johnny Frisco frowned. "Look, lady, I told you. Shut up that preacher-fruitcake or get him out of here!" He turned towards Osip. "This guy--he's a little nuts."

"Why do we need him?' asked Osip.

Johnny Frisco waved his hands in the air. "Politics."

"Politics? I don't understand."

"Neither do I," confessed Johnny Frisco. "But look. This cowboy preacher is a friend of the vice-president's wife. He's a part of the deal. He got us through the American red tape, and so we're stuck with him."

"Devils, leave!" repeated Billy Bob Buck, and his wife started wiping her face with a flowered hankie.

"Oh, my blessed Lord!" she said, blowing her nose into the hankie. "All these--these atheists around here! Why, my poor husband--it'll be the death of him yet! My, how I wish we were home in Muleshoe! That's good people who live there, not like these--these godless atheists!"

"Are there any other kind?" Winston Hale asked quietly.

"And you shush!" said Mrs. Billy Bob to Winston Hale. "You are not of the Lord! You are corrupted--a vile perversion--a walking Sodom and Gomorrah, you are!"

"Can it, honey!" Winston Hale said finally. "Your mascara's running like the Rio Grande, right down your puffy eyes across your fat little cheeks."

"You--you humanist fruit cake!" said Mrs. Billy Bob.

"Sticks and stones!" answered Winston Hale.

"California new-age pervert!" she hissed.

The reverend Billy Bob meanwhile started grabbing his head and yanking at his silver hair. "Devils and perverts! Perverts and devils! We're surrounded. Ezekiel! Ezekiel! Mog, mog, Makel and Begog! Daniel Ten and Revelations Twenty!"

"What the hell is he wailing about now?" asked Johnny Frisco, lighting another cigarette. "Is that a football score?"

"Oh, he's just quoting the bible!" said Winston Hale. "He's done it before. It's nothing serious--just a prophecy from the Old Testament, about bears from the north and all."

"Let's keep away from the prophecy, and get down to the profits!" said Johnny Frisco.

The reverend Billy Bob's hands shot into the air. "Thirteen! Then I saw a wild beast with ten horns and seven heads!" He was breathing harder now, and his eyes rolled up and down. "Paws like a bear and mouth like a lion! Babylon the Great! Mother of Harlots and all the world's abominations!"

"Oh, shut him up!" wailed Johnny Frisco, putting his hands to his ears. "That man's gonna drive me crazy!"

Through it all, Osip stood at the end of the room, his fingers drumming the table. He clenched his teeth. Finally he spoke. "When you insane kapitalists settle down a little bit, we can begin to talk business here."

"Mog! Mog! Makel and Begog!" shouted Billy Bob Buck, jumping up in the air. "Call the toll-free number on your screen. Sign the pledge-card with a prayer partner. Just thirty dollars a month, and you get the whole set of bible tapes thrown in. Act now, get a picture of Jesus too, with eyes that move and follow you all around the room!"

"The man's a saint! A genuine saint!' said Mrs. Billy Bob, dabbing her face with a hankie. "Satan torments him so! Why, some nights, the cursed devil jiggles the pictures on the wall and pokes at the mattress!"

"Sounds to me like you have a caffeine problem, honey," said Winston Hale. "Switch to de-caff. You'll sleep better."

Mrs. Billy Bob ignored the remark. "Y'all are tools of the devil! All of you!" She took her husband by the arm. "Come, reverend, let us leave this den of Beelzebub!"

With that, they left the room. Koshka followed, on instinct. There was something sinister about the reverend's insanity and his wife's sanity. Their voices echoed down the hallway.

"Devils, begone!" moaned the reverend.

"Now, now, honey, let us remember our mission," said Mrs. Billy Bob.

Koshka's eyes pricked up.

"Devils, begone!" the reverend repeated.

"The mission! The mission!" she whispered. "Don't forget the mission, honey dearest!"

"Mog! Mog!" said the reverend.

Koshka stopped at the stairway and rubbed his whiskers. And with good reason. Everyone knew foreigners were a little crazy. But none were as crazy as these Glasnost Hotel Americans, and none of them was nearly as crazy as the kofboi reverend, Billy Bob Buck.

#

The meeting dragged on. David interpreted, or tried to interpret what everyone shouted. Then afterwards, Osip and Johnny Frisco and Winston Hale moved to Perestroika Buffet and Snack Bar, arranging their solution to the hotel and restaurant problem. When all the agreements were reached, Johnny Frisco hugged Osip. "Man you ought 'a be in California! You'd be rich!"

Osip smiled. "I would love to go to Kalifornia. To Disneyland especially."

With that, the group split up. David and Perezhitkov stepped out into the yard. Koshka followed. The frigid air was refreshing, after the stale air of Osip's office. The moon came out from a cloud, and snowflakes sparkled.

"So Osip wants to go to Disneyland," David said. "How does he know about Disneyland?"

Perezhitkov lit a cigarette. "Everybody here knows about it! From long ago even, when they wouldn't let Khrushchev visit. All us Russians were hurt. Everybody here knows about Disneyland! I would love to see it."

"Maybe someday you will," said David.

"I doubt it. In the meantime," said Perezhitkov smiling. "We live in our own Disneyland here. Every day we encounter new fantasy situations--like how to fix something when there are no parts, how to make something when there is no material--it's a giant fantasy land."

"It's not all that bad, is it?" asked David. "So many people here seem so--so genuine and unpretentious."

"It's not always so bad. But you know, we're used to order and consistency here. And now things are changing so fast we can't keep up, and we're not used to changes of this sort anyway, you know. This city changes more every day now than it used to in decades."

"Saint Petersburg! What a beautiful city!" David said. "It's exciting to be here with all this going on!"

"Then maybe you should find a nice Russian woman and marry!" suggested Perezhitkov. A smile spread across his face.

"Oh, I don't know," said David, his face turning red in the cold. "There's one--but, but never mind! She's definitely not interested in me!"

And Koshka was sad for David, sad too that Wonder Cat plan hadn't work. The world was a sad place indeed, he decided. He curled in the doorway and a cool breeze blew as he slipped into slumber. The memories came.

#

It was evening. A cold wind whistled off the Nevka in November of l982, and Koshka dashed in from the court yard with happy news. Luck was with them all. The winter was cold, and food was scare, but he had discovered a small pile of meat scraps in a pail outside the communal kitchen in the building across the street.

Koshka dashed through the building. Katyenka and the kittens would be so excited, but they had to hurry. Surely some other cat would discover the bounty.

Koshka dashed into the cellar, calling for the kittens in the darkness.

No reply.

Koshka called again.

No sounds.

He called again.

Not a sound.

His heart started to pound.

He ran into the nest, his heart beating faster and faster. He was dreading something, he knew not what.

Then he stopped, dug in his claws, and let out a howl from all his bones and flesh.

Somebody had killed the kittens. All of them. The two that looked like Katyenka. The two that looked like him. The one that looked like both. Their lifeless bodies lay curled about the straw.

Koshka wailed again, and it seemed like his heart would leave with the wailing.

Then he saw two eyes in the darkness. They blinked, then disappeared into the shadows.

Igor! It was Igor!

Koshka's eyes filled with hatred. Igor, the tom who called himself "King of the Island Cats."

Only he could have done such a thing.

Hatred flashed in Koshka's veins. His fur bristled, and he coiled, as if for attack. Then panic overtook him.

Katyenka. Where was Katyenka?

He sped from the cellar, dashed up the crooked steps, and stopped in the center of the court yard. "Katyenka!' he called out.

No answer.

"Ka-tyen-ka!" he wailed.

No answer.

"Ka-tyen-ka!"

Two eyes blinked from under a bush.

"Katyenka is mine!" said a voice.

Koshka turned sideways and showed his fangs.

Igor, King of the Island Cats, crept out from under the bush. "She's mine, and you'll never see her again. I claim all the island. So get out of here!"

"You--you murderer!" Koshka said. "You k-k-killed our kittens! Poor, helpless, defenseless kittens!"

The cat swelled up. "I am Igor, King of this island, and I do what I please."

"You are a murderer of helpless kittens. Where is Katyenka?"

"I am Igor, King of the Island Cats, and you will not see her again. Now get off this island, or die!"

Hatred boiled up inside Koshka. His teeth showed and his eyes narrowed. He shouted for the whole world to hear. "Igor, supposed king of the island cats. You are a murderer, and I won't let you get away with it!"

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